Smoke.
That was the first thing Kínitos registered. Thick, black, choking smoke that filled his lungs and made his eyes water.
He was on the floor. When had he hit the floor?
His ears rang with a high-pitched whine, drowning out everything else. His body ached—ribs definitely cracked, maybe broken. His broken hand was screaming in agony. But he was alive.
Kínitos pushed himself up on shaking arms, looking around through the smoke. The suite was gone. Not destroyed. Gone. The walls had been blown outward, leaving nothing but charred studs and twisted metal. The ceiling had partially collapsed, exposing the building's skeleton.
Everything that could burn was burning—what was left of the furniture, the carpet, the fixtures.And the zombies. They were just ash now.
Piles of gray-black dust where bodies had been, scattered across the floor like snow. The fireball had incinerated them completely, leaving nothing but carbon residue.
Kínitos staggered to his feet, his purple suit flickering weakly. The energy was almost depleted—he'd poured everything he had into that fireball.
"The formula worked. Holy shit, it actually worked" he thought a sly grin crossed his face.
But he'd miscalculated something. The explosion had been bigger than his numbers predicted. Way bigger. He stumbled through the wreckage toward where the bathroom should be.
The doorframe was still standing—barely. The door itself was gone, blown off its hinges. But the bathroom beyond… The bathroom was intact. Scorched. Smoke-stained. But intact.
Porcelain and tile, just like he'd hoped. Materials that didn't burn easily. Materials that had protected—
"Marco!" Kínitos lurched through the doorway.
The bathtub sat in the center of the ruined bathroom, miraculously undamaged. And inside it, curled up at the bottom with his arms over his head, was Marco Delgado.
Perfectly fine.
No burns. No injuries beyond the scratch on his face from the earlier debris. The purple smoke that had been leaking from him was gone now, dissipated.
Marco's eyes were squeezed shut, his whole body trembling.
"Marco," Kínitos said, his voice hoarse from the smoke. "Marco, we need to move."
Marco didn't respond. He was in shock, probably, his mind unable to process what had just happened.
Kínitos reached down and grabbed his arm, pulling him upright. "Marco! Look at me!"
Marco's eyes opened—wide, terrified, but aware.
"W-what did you do?" Marco's voice was barely a whisper. "Whats happening ?"
"I don't know." Kínitos helped him out of the tub. "Can you walk?"
Marco's legs were shaking, but he nodded. "I think so. I—" He looked around at the destroyed bathroom, at the inferno beyond.
"How are we alive?"
"Bathtub. Porcelain doesn't burn." Kínitos moved toward where the doorway used to be.
"But we need to get out of here before the floor gives way."
The suite was an inferno. Flames everywhere, smoke so thick Kínitos could barely see three feet ahead. The floor creaked ominously beneath them, structural damage spreading.
They were six stories up in a building that was actively collapsing.
And somewhere below them, the man in white was still hunting. Kínitos pulled Marco through the wreckage, navigating by memory more than sight. The hallway should be to the left. The stairwell beyond that.
If the stairwell was even still standing. They stumbled through what used to be the suite's entrance, into the hallway. It was a war zone. The explosion had torn through the entire floor, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. Bodies—actual bodies this time, not zombies—lay scattered among the debris. People who'd been on the sixth floor when the fireball went off.
Kínitos tried not to look at them.
"This way," he said, pulling Marco toward the service stairwell. The main stairwell was too exposed, too likely to be watched by the man in white's forces.
They reached the stairwell door—or what was left of it. The frame was twisted, the door hanging at an angle. Kínitos kicked it open.
The stairwell beyond was full of smoke but appeared structurally sound. For now.
"Down," Kínitos said. "Fast as you can."
They started descending, Marco leaning heavily on the railing, Kínitos supporting him with his good arm. Fifth floor. Fourth floor.
Marco was coughing now, the smoke getting to him. "We're… not gonna… make it…"
"Yes we are." Kínitos kept pulling him down. "Just keep moving."
Third floor.
Below them, Kínitos heard voices. Shouts. Footsteps rushing up the stairs.